


Mad in Some Way or Another

by whitchry9



Series: Aspie!Sherlock [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Asperger's Syndrome, Autism, Autistic!Sherlock, Family, Friendship, Gen, Prompt Fill, aspie holmes, aspie!sherlock, in which mummy and father aren't horrible, neurodivergent family all around
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-23
Updated: 2013-08-21
Packaged: 2017-12-21 03:48:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 5,669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/895433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whitchry9/pseuds/whitchry9
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John finally gets it out of Sherlock that he has Asperger's Syndrome. Of course, he gets more than he bargained for, meeting the Holmes family.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt located here: http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/21697.html?thread=126783937#t126783937
> 
> So, what I would like is a fic in which Sherlock, prior to moving in with John, has never been independent of his family. He has been living with Mycroft since his late teens/early 20s. Despite being amazing at his work (his special interest), and at anything that requires a lot of higher cognitive functioning, he has huge difficulty with the mundane, repetitive, boring tasks that are required for living independently - like remembering to eat and sleep on something like a regular schedule, shopping for necessecities, housekeeping, paying bills on time, making "nice" with the landlord/neighbours so as not to be evicted, etc.
> 
> Mycroft, despite being every bit as Aspie as Sherlock, is simply a different personality, and besides, his special interest has always been organisation/planning, which is why he is so incredibly good at keeping his eye on everything at once, including Sherlock. 
> 
> This is why Mycroft is totally breathing down Sherlock's neck in A Study In Pink - he's terrified over his little brother's first attempt to strike out on his own. Sherlock is annoyed by this, naturally, and it seems like a miracle when a highly capable and compatible individual in the form of John appears, and is seeking a roommate, and is not instantly offended by Sherlock's Sherlockness. He won't have to live completely on his own, after all!
> 
> Sherlock is very skilled at concealing the exact nature of his personal past, because he knows the kind of negative reactions he would get if he was honest about who he'd been living with his entire life. He's actually very sensitive about it, and it hurts a lot that other people lose respect for him as a person just because of this mild anomaly. He thinks he'll be able to keep it from John, too, but the truth comes out somehow.
> 
> Bonus: If we get to meet the uber-geeky, eccentric Holmes parents.  
> Uber-bonus: If John, when he finds out, is not filled with pity/contempt/superiority the way most people are, but simply accepts and respects it as an obvious part of the highly unusual package that is Sherlock.

 John breathed a sigh of relief as he let himself into Baker Street and out of the sun. It was one of those stupid days where it didn't rain, and instead the sun decided to make up for it by shining extra brightly. If only it chose to do that in December rather than June, John wouldn't have minded. But on a day where he had to walk, while carrying their groceries, he did not appreciate the heat.

He rested for a minute, letting his eyes adjust to the dark before heading upstairs, not eager to see what Sherlock may have done to the flat in the time he was gone.

 

He'd left him early that morning, Sherlock haven't even gone to bed yet, with instructions to clean up the elaborate amalgamation of beakers, tubing, and stands he'd assembled in the living room the day before.

John had gone to visit Harry, run a few errands, and to buy groceries. (He didn't go to the store where he fought with the chip and pin machine. He wasn't sure if he could show his face there ever again.)

It had been a good six hours since he'd left Sherlock sprawled on the couch, where he'd apparently been all night, and John was hoping for some evidence that Sherlock had done what he'd asked. Any evidence really. Even if he'd dismantled whatever it was he'd built without putting it away, John would have settled.

But nothing had been touched, Sherlock still in the same position as when John had left him.

John dumped the grocery bags in the kitchen and took a deep breath before walking into the room where Sherlock and his mess laid.

“Sherlock,” he said evenly. “Why haven't you cleaned... this up like I asked you to?”

“Hm?”

“When I left this morning, I asked you to clean this up. Did you forget? Did you just not want to do it? Had you even realized I'd gone?”

Sherlock shifted slightly, and opened his eyes to peer at John.

“Of course I noticed.” He sounded peeved. “It was quiet.”

John sighed. “Do you have a valid reason for not cleaning this mess up, other than you were too busy thinking and _forgot?_ ”

“No John,” he replied, irritated. “I can't remember everything.”

John stopped. “Everything? Sherlock, this is one thing that I asked you to do! Have you honestly just sat there on the couch all day, still in your dressing gown?”

“No,” he replied honestly. “I made some tea.”

“Made some tea...” John muttered, going into the kitchen and making rummaging noises. “So if you could make yourself tea, why couldn't you be arsed to do _this one thing for me?_ ”

“I was thinking, John,” he said flatly.

“Thinking!” John came to stand in the doorway between the kitchen and sitting room. “Thinking!” he repeated.

“Yes, and I couldn't put it away yet. I wasn't done,” Sherlock told him, sitting up and fluffing his hair. Sometimes John wanted to pull on that hair, use it like a leash to direct Sherlock to where he was supposed to be. (He suspected it wouldn't go over well at all, probably landing them both in hospital after a spectacular no-holds-barred throw down.)

“Not done,” John repeated. “And you couldn't finish whatever the hell it was you had to do, and then put it away?”

“No,” Sherlock retorted. He was becoming agitated, his hands flicking around like they wanted to reach for something. Sherlock balled them into fists and released them slowly, doing what John recognized as violin fingerings from that one awful time he thought he'd learn.

He stood up and began pacing around the room, his fingers still playing silent melodies.

“I... I just couldn't,” he insisted, the tinge of panic still in his voice.

“Okay,” John said uneasily. “Sherlock, what's wrong?”

“I just couldn't,” he repeated, running the fingers of one hand through his hair while shaking the other, like trying to flick off something wet.

“I know,” John said, in what he hoped was a soothing voice. “I understand that. But what's wrong now?”

“You're not listening!” he bellowed.

John watched Sherlock pace, now completely lost.

“What?”

Sherlock's laps turned smaller until he was almost spinning. “You're not listening,” he repeated, whispering to himself now. “I couldn't. You're not listening.”

He continued running one hand through his hair while the other returning to fingering what was undoubtedly some ridiculously complicated piece.

John frowned. “I'll just come back in a bit. We can talk once you've calmed down.”

Sherlock ignored him as John returned to the kitchen.

 

John put the groceries away, and then busied himself cleaning the kitchen. For someone who rarely ate, Sherlock managed to dirty quite a few dishes.

John washed them all, finding the warm soapy water relaxing, especially when faced with the thought of returning to talk to the agitated detective.


	2. Chapter 2

 When he went back into the sitting room, some twenty minutes later, Sherlock had stopped pacing and was curled up in his armchair, dressing gown wrapped tightly around him, long arms clasped around the knees that were folded into his lap.

John was ignored as he sat down across from him, Sherlock looking blankly off at something, or perhaps nothing.

 

“Sherlock?” John asked hesitantly.

“Mm,” Sherlock responded. It was a promising sign.

“Are you alright?”

“Mm,” he said again.

John nodded. “Right... D'you want to talk about it?”

“Mrr.”

John frowned. “Too bad. I'll be waiting. Whenever you're ready.”

 

Sherlock sat for another minute before heaving a dramatic sigh.

“Really John?” he huffed.

“Really,” he confirmed. “So what was that? Bad day? Something I should know about? Panic attack?” He waited for the signature Sherlock look, a scoff that said _as if,_ but it never came.

 

Sherlock stretched his long legs out, bending his knees tentatively before placing his feet on the ground.

“Asperger's Syndrome. A type of high functioning autism. Features include impaired social interactions, sensory processing issues, difficulty discerning sarcasm and the like, and an inability to understand nonverbal communication. Much like the symptoms of autism, but milder with no delayed speech. People with the disorder often have average or above average intelligence.”

This whole thing was spoken in a monotone, something from a government website or a textbook. Which, John realized, was probably word for word.

“What you witnessed was a... meltdown of sorts. I suppose you could call it that.”

John nodded slowly.

“I suppose this is it then,” he sighed. “Now that you've found out.”

John only looked at him blankly.

“What?”

Sherlock blinked at him. “What do you mean, _what_? Aren't you going to leave?”

John rolled his eyes. “No,” he said slowly. “I would have done that the first night after you nearly got yourself killed. Or maybe after you nearly got me killed. And Sarah.” He paused, looking thoughtful.

“There were so many times I should have left...” he murmured, smiling.

“So... you're not going to leave now that you've found out?” Sherlock said slowly.

John laughed. “Sherlock, I figured it out in the first couple of days. I just figured you'd want to talk about it when you were ready.”

Sherlock sagged with relief.

“You're not leaving?” he asked again.

“You can't get rid of me that easily,” John told him, smiling.

“Huh,” Sherlock noted, collapsing into his chair.

“Did you expect me to leave?” John asked, still smiling.

“Yes,” he replied honestly.

John's smile faded.

“Have other people left when they found out?”

“Of course.” Sherlock frowned. Wasn't John understanding this?

John made a face.

Sherlock recognized that look. It was the 'John is not amused' look. Generally, it meant look out. Sherlock couldn't recall doing anything that would prompt John to have this look, so assumed it was meant for someone else other than him.

“You seem displeased,” Sherlock noted. “I don't think it's something I've done...”

“God no,” John said, shaking his head. “I'm just thinking about those other people. To make it through the body parts and violin playing, only to be run off by something so inconsequential...” he trailed off, not wanting to say it.

“You are allowed to say it you know,” Sherlock told him. “It's not a bad word.”

“I know that,” John sighed.

“Although I've never liked it,” Sherlock interjected. “I mean, it could be better.”

John tilted his head thoughtfully. “Good point.”

“You were saying?”

“I find the idea that people could put up with some of your strange habits, but not once they had a name to go with them, a bit offensive.”

“Why would it offend you?”

John's face furrowed. “Because you're my friend. And I don't like when people think you're stupid or a psychopath, or whatever, simply because you're different.”

Sherlock only looking skeptical at his sentimentality.

“Whatever,” John said, dismissing his thoughts with a wave of his hand. “But now that you've admitted to what I've suspected for months, I want details.”

Sherlock scowled at him, but John only stared right back.

Eventually, Sherlock gave in, sighing and rolling his eyes.

“I'm going to need tea for this,” Sherlock said pointedly.

John sighed, but got up and headed to the kitchen.


	3. Chapter 3

 Two cuppas later, he sat back down in the chair and waited for Sherlock to speak.

“I lived at home until I went to university. That wasn't such a good fit. I finished the first two years, but I was rather miserable. Then I went home, which was terribly dull and suffocating. That's when I tried to move out, which didn't go well, and led to the whole drugs thing. Then I went back to living at home after I got clean, which was where I remained until meeting you.” He frowned. “Except for that one time with Montague Street, but that didn't even last the month.”

John nodded.

“So you can see why Mycroft was so invested in meeting my flatmate. He wanted to make sure that you'd be suitable. Apparently you passed.” He smirked.

“That was why he borrowed me that first night, wasn't it?”

Sherlock nodded. “To get a sense of you. Mycroft is far better with people than I am.” He sounded disgusted at the thought.

John had a sudden realization. “Is Mycroft... Is he on the spectrum too?”

Sherlock nodded. “You can hardly tell though. He's much more well adjusted,” he noted bitterly. “You should have seen him when he was younger- a poster boy for Asperger's. Obsessed with government and politics, which worked out well for him. Helped him understand people a lot more. Surprisingly enough, knowing everything there is to know about chemistry doesn't help predict human behaviour as much. Even when it comes to love.” He sighed. “He did extremely well with social training, learning to look people in the eye, to control his stims.”

John frowned. “Did your parents make you do that? I've heard a few stories about therapy that was more harmful to the child than helpful.”

Sherlock snorted. “John, you haven't met my parents. I can assure you, they did no such things. I'll have to introduce you some time. This weekend perhaps.” He smirked.

John was somewhat uneasy with Sherlock's sudden glee. “Why?”

Sherlock waved him off. “You'll soon understand. Now, weren't we discussing how annoying Mycroft is?”

John settled back in his chair and waited for Sherlock to continue.

“Mycroft took much better to the therapy than I did. My parents though at first that my diagnosis was different, perhaps classic autism, or somewhere from mid to high functioning. This was mostly because I didn't speak until I was four, preferring signs to words. But then I started speaking, and that theory flew out the window.” He smirked. “Full sentences, in English and French. Mummy was rather pleased.”

“Of course, it didn't help that my interests were far less acceptable than Mycroft's. Scouting the grounds for dead things to examine wasn't considered normal by the other children's parents, and I wasn't allowed to socialize with them. Meanwhile, Mycroft at that age had a number of connections throughout our well off neighbourhood. Ever the politician,” he muttered.

“Hang on,” John said. “You're saying that before Mycroft was even a teenager, he was already networking?”

“Of course,” Sherlock replied, looking at John with a strange expression. “This is Mycroft. How else would he be the British government now?”

John sighed. “I don't even know. So Mycroft is on the spectrum. Must have been a bit difficult for your parents. How were they?”

Sherlock fiddled with an invisible thread on his dressing gown before answering.

“Mummy tried, she really did, but she just couldn't connect with me like she was able to with Mycroft. She was more interested in human behaviour and arts than science and maths. The only way she finally found to connect with me was through music.”

“The violin,” John realized.

Sherlock smiled. “Yes, the violin. It took her ages to figure out which instrument. I declared the piano boring, as well as about another dozen or so things before I picked up the violin and fell in love.”

“And how old were you?”

“Eight.”

John whistled. “I suppose that explains why you're so good at it.”

Sherlock frowned. “Don't think that my musical ability is anything but hard work. I can assure you I have no savant abilities, no matter what the misconception may be about people on the spectrum possessing such. I spent hours playing the violin as a child. I found it comforting.”

“What about Mycroft?”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “You mean does he have any sort of abilities?” When John nodded, he continued. “No, thank god. I think he'd be entirely insufferable if that were the case.”

John snorted. “I can't even imagine.”

He couldn't help but feel Sherlock was avoiding giving him straight answers, so he changed the subject.

“What about your father?”

“What about him?”

John rolled his eyes. “Was he good with you? Was he there? What's your relationship like?”

“Well, Father is also on the spectrum. The only one in our family who isn't is Mummy, although she's hardly neurotypical.”

John nodded, trying to keep up.

“Father really wasn't ready for the whole having children thing. But Mummy had always wanted a family, and so that's how Mycroft and I both came to be.” Sherlock sighed. “Father tried, in his endearing sort of way. He introduced me to chemistry, but my knowledge quickly surpassed his. Chemistry was more of a hobby for him, whereas for me it's a way of life.”

“What did your father do?” John asked.

Sherlock frowned. “I'm still not exactly sure. There's money and numbers involved. Lots of numbers. I think I deleted his job title, although I'm sure it was for a good reason.”

“And your mother?”

“Well, she was big in the art circles for years, setting up art shows, authenticating works, attending numerous gallery openings and the like, but after she had Mycroft, quit that to stay home. Probably for the best, considering what we could have done to the nannies that I'm sure would have been hired to look after us.”

John snickered. Yes, that he could imagine.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The 'helping' while eating jelly babies was taken from my own experience.  
> I 'helped' my father build my loft bed by sitting in the garage with him and eating gummy bears.

 Indeed, that weekend, Sherlock took John to meet his parents.

One of Mycroft's cars came to pick them up, even though Sherlock had gleefully informed John earlier than Mycroft was indisposed, and wouldn't be able to make it.

The ride didn't take too long, and led them to a mansion on a large estate, rolling hills in front, and the hints of a forest behind.

Sherlock hopped out of the car, and John struggled to keep up with his far longer legs, and the sudden spring in his step that he hadn't seen since the last serial killer. Apparently Sherlock liked being home. Although, John reminded himself, he didn't like living there.

 

Oddly enough, Sherlock procured a key from one of his many pockets, in the coat he was wearing despite the summer heat. At least he hadn't worn his scarf.

Sherlock unlocked the door and let himself in, pulling his coat off and throwing it towards a coat rack near the entrance, missing spectacularly.

“My parents aren't home, but they should be here soon. How about a tour?” he asked, but was off before John had a chance to answer.

He glanced helplessly at Sherlock's coat before jogging to catch up with Sherlock, lest he get lost.

 

He passed an expansive kitchen and a formal dining room as Sherlock led him to the stairs, then hopped up them.

It was only a short trip down the hall before Sherlock stopped abruptly, his hand on a doorknob.

“My childhood bedroom,” Sherlock explained, swinging open the door. “It really hasn't changed all that much since I was about four.”

John stood in the doorway and gaped.

It was a large room, by his accounts anyway, but he had grown up having to share a room with Harry, so he really wasn't the best judge. The walls were a soothing shade of blue, and the curtains and throw rug were stylishly matched. That was where the decorating must have ended though, because the rest of the room was a complete mishmash of assorted colours, themes, and patterns.

The bedspread was trains, but the pillows were sharks. The one wall was literally plastered with posters, ranging from the periodic table to the human body, and back again to Egyptian history. A bookshelf on the far wall near the window was stuffed, with volumes of all sizes, and from the looks of some of them, appeared to be in a number of different languages. A large comfortable looking chair was next to the bookshelf, in front of the window to take advantage of the natural light. A reading lamp was next to it, for those late night reading sprees, which John could absolutely see Sherlock doing.

There was a computer desk, covered with various papers and writing utensils, next to a dresser, with miniature figures covering the top. Dinosaurs, model aeroplanes, ships in bottles, and what appeared to be a mouse in formaldehyde.

Next to the computer desk there was a door, which John assumed led to a closet, probably a walk in one considering.

“Oh,” John finally managed to say.

Sherlock only grinned. “When I was younger, my interests would change rapidly, but my parents refused to get rid of anything after I moved on, saying that I could use it again someday. Which was often true,” he said, gesturing to one of the shelves of books, which John could see were relating to herbs and natural remedies, something that had been vital in one of their recent cases.

“Wow,” John said, finding it difficult to manage words of more than one syllable.

Sherlock only hummed in response, and John returned to examining every inch of Sherlock's room. It was all rather impressive, and a bit surprising, since he figured it would be spotless, with no personal touches anywhere, and he couldn't have been more wrong.

However, what had to be the most surprising feature in Sherlock's room was the fort in the corner, which instead of being built out of cushions or foam blocks, like most children's forts were, was actually constructed of wood.

 

Sherlock grinned at John's face as he took it in.

“I'd often get overwhelmed when I was younger, before I learned how to ignore some stimuli. My father understood that, and helped me construct this. Or rather, he constructed it while I ate jelly babies and watched.”

John smiled. That sounded more like the Sherlock he knew, taking a managerial role.

“It's almost soundproof, and there are a number of blankets and pillows in there, including a weighted blanket, which is wonderful during a meltdown. I'd spend entire days in there sometimes.”

His eyes glazed over slightly, and John recognized the look of someone thinking about the past.

 

Sherlock shook his head. “Anyway, I think I heard my parents arrive home.”

John hadn't heard anything, but trailed after Sherlock as he left his room abruptly and pranced down the stairs. Sure enough, he could hear voices once they got closer.


	5. Chapter 5

 A man and woman were in the large kitchen that John had caught a glimpse of as Sherlock had taken him upstairs. They were unpacking grocery bags.

“Mummy, Father,” Sherlock said greeting them. “Mycroft wished me to inform you he could not attend today, as he is busy taking over the middle east.”

“Sherlock,” his mother warned.

Sherlock sighed, but amended his statement. “He might have said peacekeeping, or something of the sort, but we all know what that means.”

Sherlock's mother looked up and spotted John.

“Oh, you must be John,” she said, and before John could say anything in return, the woman had enveloped him in a hug.

“Oh,” he managed weakly, into the woman's hair.

She let him out of the embrace, but kept her hands on his arms, examining him.

“So you are the man I've heard so much about. I read your blog you know, and Sherlock's too, but I can see why yours appeals to a larger audience.”

She winked at John and let go of him as Sherlock scowled.

 

The man stepped forward, holding out his hand for John.

“Doctor John Watson,” he said, looking at John briefly before looking away. “Sherlock has indeed spoken of you often, although I don't follow your writings like my wife does.”

Sherlock perked up slightly at that, and shot John a smug look. He resisted rolling his eyes.

“Well, it's nice to meet you, even though Sherlock has told me so little about you both,” John said, releasing Mr Holmes' hand, as the man seemed intent on continuing to shake it.

Mrs Holmes raised an eyebrow at Sherlock, who pretended he couldn't see her.

“Well,” she said, attempting to make up for her son and husband, “Let's remedy that shall we?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but didn't say anything.

“Now Sherlock, take John and your father into the sitting room, and I'll be right in with some snacks and beverages. It's a bit warm out for tea, so how about iced tea John?”

“Sure,” John agreed, before following Sherlock and his father into yet another large and tastefully decorated room.

There were two sofas facing each other with a table in the middle, much like the layout when they had visited the palace.

 

John took a seat on one side on a couch, and Sherlock took the other side. His father sat across from him. He wondered if one of them was going to say something in the awkward silence that soon filled the room, but he remembered he wasn't just dealing with one Holmes, but two, with a third on her way.

He was starting to wonder if perhaps this wasn't the best idea.


	6. Chapter 6

 No one had said anything by the time Sherlock's mother returned, carrying a tray with cups and a pitcher of iced tea. She set it down on the table before scurrying out again, returning a moment later with a plate of biscuits.

She took her place next to her husband, across from John.

 

“Tea Sherlock?” she asked, glancing up at him.

Sherlock nodded, and took one of the biscuits, nibbling on it.

She poured a cup and handed it to John before pouring one for Sherlock.

“Thank you,” he murmured, accepting it.

The iced tea was still served in teacups, and honestly, if that was the strangest thing that happened this visit, John would be shocked.

 

When everyone had tea, and after John had eaten a biscuit, at the female Holmes' insistence, she eased back into the sofa and began to speak.

“So John, you've known Sherlock for what, over a year now, and this is the first time we're meeting you. Any particular reason, or must we give Sherlock another talk about proper social protocols?”

John shifted before answering, not wanting to subject Sherlock to a lecture, knowing he'd be forced to hear about it later.

“Well, uh, Sherlock finally told me about his Asperger's Syndrome this past week, which I suppose is what prompted the visit.”

Sherlock's mother raised an eyebrow and set her teacup back in its saucer before replying. “Oh, but surely a clever man like you, a medical man even, would have figured it out before then?”

John nodded. “Yeah, I'd had my suspicions, but I wasn't going to say anything to him about it. He tends to overreact to simple things. I figured he tell me when he was ready, or when it was sort of unavoidable, as was the case.”

Next to him, Sherlock was fighting a losing battle to keep the scowl off his face. However, John suspected he wasn't really trying.

“Really Sherlock?” she said, chastising him slightly. “You waited that long to tell your friend? And what, was it only because you had a meltdown?”

Sherlock shrugged slightly, which was as good as an admittance of guilt.

His mother frowned. “And were you ever going to tell him?”

Sherlock shrugged again, much to his mother's increasing irritation.

“Sherlock, I know you can use your words.”

Sherlock heaved a sigh. “I don't know. I'd suspected that John knew, but it wasn't like it came up in everyday conversation. It's not like we talk about our neuroatypicalities often.”

John frowned at that.

“Sherlock, it's something that John, as your friend, would have liked to know,” his mother said gently, looking to John for confirmation.

“Oh, yeah.”

John was still mulling over what Sherlock had said about him.

“Right? Tell Sherlock.”

She was nudging her husband, who winced, but straightened up and looked at Sherlock.

“Well...” he hesitated. “I didn't keep anything from your mother.”

Sherlock snorted. “You weren't diagnosed until after Mycroft was.”

His mother shot him a look, one that was rather impressive, even to John, and Sherlock stilled.

Mrs Holmes must have had an excellent understanding of how both her husband and younger son functioned, because she wisely chose to change the subject at that point rather than attempt to pull blood from stones.

“Oh, Sherlock, would you play your violin for us?” His mother smiled at him. “Your father and I do miss it, don't we?” She elbowed the person in question, but he only gave her a strange look.

“Who said I do?” he asked, clueless.

John chuckled. Sherlock definitely took after his father.

She smiled at her husband dryly. “I was hoping you would go along with it in order to encourage Sherlock to play.”

He shrugged. “No amount of persuasion can make Sherlock change his mind if he doesn't want to do something.”

John only knew how true that was.

“Well, will you Sherlock?” his mother asked, looking to him.

John frowned, realizing something. “But you left your violin at home.”

Sherlock smirked at him. “There's another one here of course.”

“Should have known,” John muttered.

“I suppose I could,” Sherlock said, getting up and brushing some imaginary dust off himself. “I'll be right back.”

He dashed off, which left John alone with both of Sherlock's parents.


	7. Chapter 7

 It was silent only for a second, likely until his mother knew he was out of earshot, before she spoke. “So honestly John, how is Sherlock doing? We do worry about him, and Mycroft can only tell us so much.”

John was startled. “Oh. Well, I'm not really sure how you'd define 'fine', but he seems to be getting on well enough.”

She nodded, but bit her lip before speaking. “Does he make himself meals on any sort of regular schedule? Or even eat daily without prompting?”

“Well, no,” John admitted. “I do that. But I don't know if he'd do that if I left, and it's only because I'm there that he relies on me.”

Mrs Holmes frowned. “I don't think it has anything to do with you. When he lived at home he'd forget to eat unless he passed out, or his stomach made noises that interfered with his thinking. It was a constant struggle.”

John nodded. “I know that.”

Sherlock's mother leaned forward. “And how about independence? Does he pay the bills, do chores, that sort of thing? Go shopping even?”

John laughed. “Sorry, but just... no. I pay the bills. Sherlock couldn't care less about money, unless maybe he was doing an experiment with it. He abhors shopping, which I can understand, since I find it intolerable at the best of times, and I don't have sensory problems. Oh, and he rarely cleans. That's the whole reason he told me, because we had an argument about him cleaning something up, which led to the meltdown.”

She looked discouraged.

“If it's any consolation, I think his social skills are improving though,” he offered.

“That is encouraging,” she said, perking up slightly.

 

Footsteps approaching them ended their conversation, and John wasn't sure if it had reassured the woman or only made her more worried.

 

Sherlock was smirking slightly, and John wondered just how good his hearing was.

He was indeed holding a violin, and settled back down onto the couch, holding it up to his chin. He thought for a second, and then began playing.

It took John a while to recognize the song, but Sherlock's father obviously knew it, as he was practically beaming throughout the piece.

“It's from Doctor Who,” John noted when Sherlock finished playing, and set the violin down in his lap.

“ _Vale Decem_ ,” his father informed John excitedly. “Played when David Tennant regenerated. It's always been a source of great emotion for me. Play a less sad one now Sherlock.”

Sherlock nodded, and lifted his violin and bow again.

 

John couldn't place this tune, even though it sounded vaguely familiar.

“ _Rest Now_. Or _Take Them All_. From the series seven episode. The soundtrack for that isn't even out yet which is why we can't be sure of titles,” he noted, looking rather impressed.

Sherlock grinned. “I watched it a few times, worked out some of the kinks.”

John was awed. “You mean, that's just... you heard it, and now you can play it?”

Sherlock looked slightly irked. “Yes, but remember what I told you before. I had to work for this. It wasn't a natural ability. My memory helped a whole lot, but it's still hard work. Don't forget that,” he told John, lifting the violin again, and effectively ending that conversation with another melody.

 

It was one that John recognized immediately.

“You often play that one during the night,” he noted softly when it was finished.

Sherlock hesitated before nodding. “You sometimes have nightmares,” he said carefully.

“ _The Dream of a Normal Death_ ,” Sherlock's father said hesitantly, as if the title was somehow offensive. “It's played in 'The Family of Blood', when The Doctor realizes the normal life he could have had with Joan. But even though he sees what his life could have been like, getting married, having children, growing old, and dying, which he really wants to do, he goes back to being a Time Lord, cosmogyraling in his blue box. Because that's the sort of life he was meant for. One where he finds people for a short time, but then loses them.” He looked sad as he said this.

They all stared at him for a moment.

“Too much?” he asked.

Sherlock deflected that by explaining to John. “Father is a massive Doctor Who fan.”

John nodded, a bit speechless.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I listened to a lot of DW music when I was writing this, and it sort of got all over/in the story.  
> Anyways.
> 
> Vale Decem: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IAeu7_jRySA  
> Rest Now/Take Them All (I edited my own version): http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=d5lZVpDL9vQ  
> Dream of a Normal Death: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hwE54hQ8D3A


	8. Chapter 8

 Later that day when they left, John having been forced to eat two more biscuits, and Sherlock eating a surprising three more, he was still mulling over a number of things that were said.

The first was his apparent 'neuroatypicality', and the second was the meaning of the song Sherlock played for him at night.

If there was indeed a meaning. It would be more like Sherlock to discard all meaning in favour of practicality, and indeed the piece was soothing. But surely there were others that could have done the same.

 

He asked Sherlock about the one thing on the ride back to their flat.

“You said that 'we don't talk about our neuroatypicalities often'. What does that even mean?”

Sherlock gave him a strange look. “I thought it would be fairly obvious. I'm certainly not neurotypical, and neither are you. Adding an 'a' in front of a word often indicates that it is lacking the root of the word, or whatever. Language,” he muttered as an afterthought. “Tedious.”

John rolled his eyes. “I've been through medical school. I understand that. No, what I'm referring to is how you think I'm not... whatever, typical or something.”

Sherlock looked at him for a second before bursting out laughing.

John was only more confused. “Sherlock... I don't understand. Stop it, this isn't funny.”

Sherlock managed to stop giggling for a minute to answer John's demand. “It's just that, I thought it would be obvious to you. You have PTSD, you used to have a psychosomatic limp, and you still have an intermittent tremor that is cured by stress, rather than triggered by it. You're hardly the picture of neurotypical, thriving on adrenaline, chasing after me chasing after murderers.”

“Yeah, well I wouldn't have to chase after you if you weren't reckless.”

“I already admitted I'm not neurotypical. If you're having a sudden identity crisis, it's hardly my problem to deal with.”

And indeed, for the rest of the ride, Sherlock played on his phone while John stared out the window.

 

 _The Dream of a Normal Death_... huh. When he realized he could have had a normal life, but gives it all up for having crazy adventures, a mad man in a blue box. The kind of life he was meant for. Strange friends, crazy unbelievable things happening, and an awful lot of running.

He glanced over at Sherlock, having given up on his phone, and was now fingering what was likely yet another violin song.

 

Yes, John could related to that sentiment, and he suspected Sherlock could as well.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from the Doctor Who quote by the seventh doctor. “Anybody remotely interesting is mad, in some way or another.”


End file.
